


The Taste of Friendship

by AJ_Lenoire



Series: The Taste of Life [3]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Dancing, F/M, Memories, Nightmares, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-23
Updated: 2015-02-23
Packaged: 2018-03-14 19:25:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,432
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3422780
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AJ_Lenoire/pseuds/AJ_Lenoire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As Natasha adjusts to the presence of a constant reminder of a man loved and lost, she discovers that the man he is now isn't so bad. A friendship forms, and maybe, even if James is beyond reach, there is still a love to be had.</p><p>After all, the brain never forgets anything. Not really.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Taste of Friendship

**Author's Note:**

> Whoa. So this went from a one-shot to a full-blown FIC. This is my longest part so far, and I expect there may be another part on the way (I make no promises). 
> 
> At any rate, I'd love to know what you think.

**_2014 – New York City, NY, USA_ **

She wakes up with a headache.

It is a light headache, pain she doesn’t even have to compartmentalise, it’s that minor. But it’s a sign. She doesn’t get drunk easy, even before the fire made her strong, she was tough to drink under the table. She pays it only the smallest thought as she gets dressed and heads down for what she knows will be another awful, awful day.

* * *

Tony is either still passed out somewhere or down in his lab, getting an early start (assuming he went to bed at all). She hasn’t seen him for a few days, so she assumes the latter. Pepper is out running Stark Industries and Hill is working with Coulson (sort of) to help reinstate SHIELD. When she’s not doing that, she’s helping Pepper. Clint is only an early bird when he has to be, and that... _thing_ is probably still chained to the wall. In short, only Steve is present when she arrives in the communal living room.

It’s stylish; an ‘L’-shaped breakfast bar with six stools, a lowered pit lined with sofas, and a large TV mounted on the wall. On either side of this wall are windows that overlook the city. It’s beautiful. Wonderful, even.

It does nothing to lighten her already black mood.

“Morning.” She mutters as she goes behind the bar to pull some orange juice out of the fridge, and a glass from one of the shelves. Steve, who has a mouth full of cereal, jerks his head and grunts cheerfully.

“Any changes?” she asks, not even having to specify. It’s the only thing on their minds now. SHIELD is still dark, HYDRA somewhat at large. She saw a news broadcast a few days ago, there was an attack at a UN summit, and it’s supposed to have been SHIELD. She knows it’s not, but that’s not her problem. Even if SHIELD does get back on its feet properly, even if they ask her to join again (knowing Coulson, he probably will), she doubts she will accept. She’s thinking she’ll try what Steve does. Come in for Avengers work and special missions only. As far as free time goes, maybe she’ll freelance if she has nothing better to do. But she doesn’t know for sure. It’s nice not having plans.

Of course, that’s not the only reason she’s got a clear schedule. Her days are currently very occupied by something considerably _less_ nice than breakfast in Stark’s cloud tower.

Steve, by this point, has swallowed, and he shakes his head, “Nothing.” He replies, but chances a small smile. Sad but hopeful, “But _that_ might be changing.” She looks up at this, genuinely a little surprised. She raises an eyebrow in question, and he answers, “Stark’s dragging Banner in. In person. Reckons he might be able to give us a new angle.”

She considers this. That could be very beneficial. Neither Stark nor Clint nor Thor – who isn’t even present at this point – can fathom what he must be going through. She and Steve, in part, can. Steve also had to adjust to a different time (albeit only once and he had support and context, he wasn’t just stuffed into a freezer like leftovers from a meal without so much as a by-your-leave) and she had to come to terms with the memories the KGB stole from her (but she wasn’t tortured to condition her questions out of her fully, nor was she reduced to a machine). The fire burned them away, burned away her wall as it made her stronger. Not as strong as Steve, but stronger nonetheless. And though _he_ has the same fire in his blood, it seems to be protecting and fuelling his Red wall, not destroying it.

But Banner is the third most helpful. He has more than a working knowledge of psyches and split personalities. Not to mention, he’s a properly qualified doctor. For all his genius, she still doesn’t think Stark counts, and all he’s really been doing is obsessing over the metal arm. But maybe, with Banner here, he’ll see sense and they might come a step closer to a solution. If one exists. There is a very real possibility that the hypersomniac shadow of Bucky and James is here to stay.

“If I’m honest,” Steve continues, “I expected a lot of things, but I didn’t expect this.”

She nods, agreeing. She knows what he means.

* * *

**_Three Months Ago_ **

He raged for a few days after initial capture; one of the many reasons he had to be kept in the Block. The Block cell that Thor could only just break out of (seriously, they asked him to try); an adapted version of Loki’s cell on the Helicarrier. It was reinforced to compensate for his metal arm, of course, and Stark was in the observation room almost twenty-four-seven, monitoring and analysing via the cameras and the two-way-mirror. The cell had no windows; it was white walls and a mirror with only one exit. There was no way he could break out.

Sedative worked as much as it would have on Steve; like alcohol it was purged from his body too quickly, and it’s not like they got many chances to administer it, anyway. He swore and cursed in several languages – though he held a penchant for Russian – screamed nonsense and roared like a wounded animal. Then his rages became more deadly. He beat anything in sight, anyone who came near him – though not like a savage, she was told, like he was scared. The rage had turned to utter terror, and his abused mind saw everything as strange and confusing and a threat. He beat the walls, his furniture, and, after a period, himself. He carved his flesh with the plastic knives they gave him with food. When they took them away, he folded paper until it was sharp, and used that instead. He ran against the walls until they padded them, tore scraps of clothing to twist and pinch his skin. He attempted to strangle himself more than once.

Stark tried to call Natasha, but it didn’t work. She had no contact with them whilst she was reinstituting her covers. All of the team knew that she had once known him, but no one knew the degree; she had painted him as an old friend and nothing more. Even if they _had_ been able to get hold of her, she would have been little help. Nonetheless, someone, somehow got hold of a Red Room file (most likely by her releasing all of SHIELD’s secrets to the world; it had been relatively low-level information. Level 5 at best) that shed some light.

After obtaining this, Stark deduced that the almost ritualistic self-harming was part trauma (which he already knew), and genuine insanity. The constant mind wipes had rendered him unable to remember anything. He was like a dog, given a scent to track and to kill. As best they could tell, he was reading his incarceration as his being captured by an enemy, and was trying to kill himself before they could torture him further, attempt to extract information that everyone knew he didn’t possess. HYDRA would not have told him anything, and even if they had, it was long gone.

Knowing that he wouldn’t stop until he was dead, and they couldn’t very well deprive him of clothing and bedding, they gassed him. Knocked him out with a sedative powerful enough to subdue even the Hulk, and easily Steve. Natasha doubted it would work, but said nothing. At the very least, it gave them a day or so to plan a solution. As it turned out, no solution was needed.

When he awoke, he was different.

Test after test was conducted, new examinations on lab rats, records from old ones pulled from here, there, everywhere. The gas had not affected him, as best they could tell. But to be sure, Stark went further. He wasn’t about to risk anything, not with him. They got him into an MRI machine (not that it was difficult, though the metal arm proved a challenge, the machine being a magnet and all) and scanned his brain. The sedative had done nothing. At least, nothing directly. The sedative had been so powerful that it had levelled out his rages; managed to partially combat the insanity, enough to stabilise him. But now they had a bigger problem.

Though he was sane, he was catatonic. Not speaking, only doing something when told, hardly even moving. Mostly, he just slept. They kept him for a few days, and aside from night terrors – which were pretty mild, considering the trauma he was subject to – he was basically harmless.

Not wanting to punish him unnecessarily, they released him from the Block. Stark requested he stay in the tower, since, if he went into another rage, it would be more easily handled. Steve agreed, on the condition that he was nearby, so he ended up sharing a floor with the Winter Soldier – though everyone stopped calling him that because that wasn’t who he was any more. Not really.

Nonetheless, his left arm was always, _always_ chained to the fixture in the wall, one Stark had cooked up specifically for him, and his right arm was more or less free to move, though they still chained it up when he was asleep, just in case his night terrors compelled him to harm himself or others around him.

* * *

“You weren’t alone.” She agrees, verbally this time. This catatonic shadow of the two men and the puppet he once was...it was not what she expected at all when she arrived back from Russia. She thought maybe, after some time, she would grow used to it. But it’s been three weeks. Nothing has changed. The shadow could well be a permanent result if his memories cannot be regained.

* * *

By the time Clint rolled out of his bed, it was already two in the afternoon. A great deal had happened by this point, one of which being that Natasha found herself proven wrong on two counts. Tony was neither passed out, nor was he in his lab. He had flown, in his own private jet, to India. He had picked Banner up personally and taken him back to the Avengers Tower, where he was acquainting himself with the equipment. It had taken little persuasion to bring him back; many were fascinated by the Soldier; or what was left of him. Two men and a puppet, not merely a shell. Clint was only halfway through his first coffee when Banner came up from the lab to request Natasha’s presence.

“Already?” she asked him, “You work fast.”

“It’s a gift.” He shrugged, then waved for her to follow as he made his way back down to the Block.

He was only being kept in the Block whilst under observation, and though Steve had undoubtedly told him this, it seemed to make no difference. He was sat in an old t-shirt of Steve’s (white and quite formfitting, if Natasha did say so herself. Which she did) and a pair of white trousers that made him look like an asylum patient. In a way, he was one. But again, this made no difference. He was just sat on the floor, legs out in front of him, face expressionless, hands by his sides, head tilted slightly to the side as he gazed off into the distance. He could have been posing as a body in a film if it weren’t for the rise and fall of his chest. She was fairly sure he wasn’t blinking.

Natasha looked at him through the two-way-mirror. Her brow creased. She hadn’t really seen him these past few weeks. She’d had no cause to. Even Steve had not spent much time, as all he seemed to do was sleep.

For the first time, she wondered if it actually _was_ sleep. Maybe he was just closing his eyes when he heard someone approaching, so he didn’t have to be talked to. Because he probably didn’t know he was being watched now, and though he still wasn’t moving, he was clearly awake.

 _Aware_ , however, was another matter entirely.

“He’s very...calm.” she said blandly. Banner was not against the window, but he too was fixating on the dark-haired man in the Block.

“He is.” He agreed, “Which is what worried me.” Natasha turned to him, concerned.

“Meaning?” she asked cautiously. Banner sighed and pushed his glasses up his nose, even though he didn’t really need to. She recognised instantly it was a tell; a habitual tick.

“A man who has been through that sort of trauma should not be that calm.” He explained, “Either he should be raging out of his mind – which, I’m given to understand, is what he did. I haven’t yet had a chance to study the tapes.” He added as a side-note, “ _Or_ ,” he continued, “He should be...catatonic.”

Natasha frowned, “But he is.” She said, “Look at him.”

Banner shook his head. “ _That_ ,” he pointed to the man in the white room, “Is not catatonic. That is functional. Emotionally and psychologically stinted, yes, but functional. I’ve seen the brain scans and the reports. He is very conscious and very aware of everything going on around him, he just chooses to ignore it. It’s not catatonia; it’s much closer to depression – I mean, he can remember all those languages. In his sleep he would talk all sorts of languages, he would _talk_ , ergo he would be functioning. From what I gather he had a tendency–”

“A tendency to speak in Russian, yes.” Natasha cut across, “I’m well aware. But what’s your point? What’s wrong with functional?”

“In theory, nothing.” He admitted, “But given all he’s been through...” he trailed off, “All his memories seem to be locked up pretty tight, assuming they still exist. The brain doesn’t delete anything, but he may well have sustained a great deal of brain damage. He was wiped to the point where he didn’t even know his name. He didn’t know anything or anyone, he was just given a picture and told ‘go kill’. Usually he was put back on ice before his confusion became a problem for HYDRA – according to the files, at least.” He sighed, “But I don’t have enough to go on, SHIELD didn’t have all that much on the Soldier, HYDRA kept it pretty quiet.” He shrugged.

Natasha turned to him, away from the man in the Block, “Why are you telling me this?” she asked him, “I can’t help. I’m not Stark, I’m not even a doctor.”

“True,” Banner admitted, “But I don’t need a doctor. I’ve already got one.” He pointed to himself. “What _you_ can give me is information, more details. HYDRA only followed the KGB’s example. So there isn’t much to go on.” He paused, “I’m given to understand you have his Red Room file?”

She nodded, “I found it after I destroyed the Red Room.” She told him, “I took some of their files, burned the ones about me. I have it, but it’s in Moscow.”

“In that case, I’ll need you to take a trip to Moscow.” Banner replied, “The more I know about what was done to him, the more likely we are to come up with adequate therapy. With a bit of luck, he’ll regain some of his memories and be a little less... _that_.” He turned, almost sadly, to look at the shell of Bucky and James and the Soldier, “He has no memory, no self. He doesn’t even know his name.” he turned back to her, “He’s basically had a lobotomy. But your file, and some of your blood should help.”

“My blood?” she asked, “What does my blood have to do with any of this?”

“You have the same variant of the super-serum in your body.” He answered, “The KGB’s own version of Erksine’s. You claim the serum helped your to regain your memories. Maybe, if I can recreate it, it will help me figure out exactly what’s wrong.”

She shrugs, that’s fair enough, and Banner is one of the few people she’d trust to stick a needle in her body, anyway. She lets him take one large syringe, certainly enough to do some tests with, then he sends her on her way to catch a private jet to Moscow.

“By the time you’re back, I’ll have the results.” He said, and she made to leave, but he stopped her.

“One more thing.” He added, and she turned to look at him, raising her eyebrows; she was listening,

“Don’t tell Steve any of this, would you?” he asked, “I know he really wants him to be okay. And...I don’t want to give him the bad news until we have some good.” She knows that Banner would never lie to Steve, so if Rogers comes asking Banner will fold like a cheap suit. But she also knows he won’t go out of his way to inform Steve of his lobotomised friend.

“I doubt he’ll ever be okay.” Natasha answered gloomily, “But I won’t say anything.” Then she turned to leave once more. As she walked through the door, she asked over her shoulder, “Are you sure you don’t know his name?”

“Well,” Banner replied, “We do, but we don’t know what he’ll answer to – if anything.”

“You said he was emotionally stinted,” she told him, “He needs to interact more.”

“So?” There was a near audible shrug in Banner’s voice. _What does that have to do with his name?_

“You’re more likely to interact with someone if they know your name.” she points out,

“And? We _don’t_ know his name.”

“Why don’t you ask him?”

* * *

**_Three Days Later_ **

When she returns from her cabin in Moscow, she doesn’t even bother with greetings – she orders JARVIS to stay quiet, and not blast it across the building that she’s back. She’s not going to hide, but she won’t go out of her way to greet everyone, at least not for the moment. She heads straight to the lab and hands Banner the file. The first word out of her mouth, even to him, isn’t _hello_ or anything along those lines.

“What does the bloodwork show?”

Banner looks greyer than before, and she can tell it’s nothing good. She wasn’t expecting good, anyway, but she had been hoping. She knows hope is a dangerous thing. Even more so when it’s false.

“Well...” he says, “It’s certainly...enlightening.”

She crosses her arms and looks at him, “Steve’s my friend,” she tells him, “And so was _he_ ,” she jerks her head to the window, “Elaborate. I want details.”

Banner sighs and raises his hands in a slightly mocking gesture of surrender. “Alright...” he mutters, and walks over to his desk. He pulls a small recorder from a drawer, and hits the record button. She expected as much; he’d want to record his findings anyway, but with a task like this, it would be too good not to record every inch of. He opened the file and spoke into the recorder as though she was not there, but she waited patiently. After five minutes, he looked up at her and began to explain.

“The serum given to him in...” he paused to flit through the file she’d given him, “1945. I thought as much. Anyway, the serum given to him in 1945 did not just make him stronger and increase his stamina.” He began, “It also affected his memory.”

“Did it increase his memory capacity?” she asked, “That’s what is did to me.”

“Yes and no.” Banner replied, “The serum increased _your_ memory, but actually hindered his. I must’ve run the bloodwork ten times – he even let me take samples from him – but as best I can tell, the serums were identical. The brain never deletes anything, not really. Everything is stored away for safekeeping, some way or another. You can be taught to use more of this capacity – though the ten percent thing is a myth – but the serum was like the crash course. Basically, all the memories the mind-wiping stored away were reawakened: you remembered everything.” He flicked through the file again, more habitual than actual reading, “Now, I’m not sure if the number of mind-wipes he was given were a factor or not, but regardless, he reacted very differently. The serum seems to be preventing his memories for some reason.”

“No.” she replied automatically, and he looked up from the file,

“No, what?”

“The serum isn’t affecting him any differently than how it affects me.” She told him, “You said it yourself, they’re identical. But in that file you’ll see records of how he was tortured, physically conditioned to not think about the man he used to be, to forget. He still remembers everything, like the languages, because his memory was expanded like mine was, but the KGB and HYDRA conditioned him to forget anything that wasn’t relevant. The serum _did_ help his memory, but the conditioning was more powerful.”

Banner is nodding now, and he turns back to a chart, “That would explain this then.” He told her, and he tapped on the glass. She could swear he hasn’t moved an inch since she left for Moscow, but now, to her utter astonishment, he moved. Tilted his head to look for the source of the sound. “He’s somewhat discombobulated,” Banner admitted, “But still very aware of his surroundings. He shouldn’t be this functional.”

“Yes,” she said impatiently, “I know, he should be traumatised,” she began, but Banner cut her off,

“No.” he insisted, “He _shouldn’t be this functional_. His brain...its _soup_. For all intents and purposes he should be a vegetable. But no, he is _aware_. I think the only thing keeping him alive is that serum, it’s keeping his brain active.”

She shook her head, confused, “What?”

Banner’s flicking through several files at once now, “Aha.” He exclaims, and holds up a page to read from, “ _Repeated use of cryogenic stasis has greatly affected the Asset’s mental capability. Brain damage is extensive, and only regular doses of the serum are keeping him functional._ ”

Natasha blinked, “So you’re telling me that the serum in his body is the only thing keeping him alive?”

“More or less.” Banner replied, “I’ll need to do more tests, but this sounds like that because he’s been out of stasis for so long, he’s had to adjust to the fact that he knows nothing.” He pushed his glasses up, “If he’s no longer getting frozen, maybe the serum in his body will heal the damage. Of course...” he muttered, “An extra dose couldn’t hurt...help regain function...combat stinting...” he suddenly looked up at her. So suddenly she jumped,

“That’s it!” he cried, and cleared space on his desk for the Winter Soldier file, spreading out the papers across the desktop, “Another dose of the serum should allow his brain to heal. He’ll regain more function, and he might even start to remember things again.”

“All at once?” she asked, and he shook his head,

“No.” he sighed, “He’s been wiped too many times – _at least_ fifty, by my estimate. That alone would be a setback, but combined with the conditioning, its going to take a while.”

“And what exactly is _a while_?”

He thought for a moment, “I can’t say for sure.” He eventually replied, “Some memories will come back quicker than others, and some might never come back at all.” He smiled comfortingly, “But this a good thing! If I can isolate the serum in your blood and create another batch, he’ll be well on the way to getting back his memories. He’ll need therapy, of course, but he’ll remember. He’ll remember Bucky and Steve and everything.”

Natasha’s happy. She really is. All things considered, this is wonderful news. Some more serum and he’ll be on his way to regaining his personality. But this raises several other questions. Namely, which personality will arise?

* * *

**_One Month Later_ **

By the time four weeks have gone past, things have changed. It took Banner a week to recreate the serum, but even three weeks have shown monumental improvement.

The biggest thing is that he’s healed. Still with very few memories, but if course that will take time. The brain damage is more or less gone, and he had regained all cognitive and motor function within a week.

He’s given injections of serum once a day, and though he initially did nothing when injected, he started to react after only three days. At first he was fearful and prone to violence, but now he sits patiently and tries his best to talk to Banner. He mixes up his languages though. Banner will talk to him in English and he will answer in another language, seemingly unaware of his doing so. He’s still prone to night terrors, apparently, but she tries to spend as little amount of time in the lab as possible.

Banner gives Natasha regular updates, such as the languages thing, and he gives Steve updates when they’re more good than bad.

_Week One: He’s stopped sleeping so much, now._

_Week Two: He asks for food now. He’s not speaking, but he’s still asking._

_Week Three: He’s started talking. It’s not English, but he’s consciously talking._

Banner sent her an audio recording of his talking at first, and she translated. She told him he was asking where he was, who was watching him...what his name was. After Banner started answering those questions, he began to talk in English. And she hears his voice in English for the first time.

It’s Brooklyn. Like Steve’s when he’s being pissy, but thicker, and more natural. Steve lost the accent, and either Bucky never did, or it came back. He still has the psyche of little better than a child, he’s still fascinated by everything – and it’s not just because he’s in a new time.

It’s after this that she starts going back down to the lab, because at least now he isn’t a pitiful shadow, or a maniacal, terrified murderer. As for what he _is_...well, it’s not what she expected.

The thing is, she’s not entirely sure what she _did_ expect. She didn’t expect James, and she didn’t expect Bucky either. She supposes this is the best case scenario, that he’s quiet, but knows that he’s secretly stewing inside. She was like that for many years. And all that time was so recent to him, with his being kept on ice like a Popsicle, he still has a lot to deal with, trauma-wise, both from the Red Room and HYDRA, and even some of his WWII issues.

She doesn’t know what to call him now, either. He’s not James, and she doubts he ever will be. But he’s not Bucky either, and she reckons that, considering he lives with Steve, and he wasn’t tortured by Steve as he was in the Red Room, Bucky will be the more likely outcome. As she goes over the file Banner is compiling – thickening the already fat record of _The Winter Soldier_ –she remembers his name. His _full_ name. _James Buchanan Barnes._

So that’s what she calls him. Barnes.

Not to his face, of course. She doesn’t call him anything, really. She never talks to him.

* * *

When he’s deemed able enough to care for himself, they let him out. He’s allowed almost anywhere in the tower, and he has a bracelet on his right wrist that tracks his whereabouts. Steve, who he took to immediately, is kind and friendly towards him. He’s a genius in that he senses Barnes is a new person, not an old friend. He needs to be treated like that.

But sometimes there are moments when Barnes remembers something, something odd from their childhood. He’ll tell or ask Steve something, and Steve will always nod and say _yeah, that’s right_ , and he never lies. But she can see the sadness in his eyes, the hope that one day Bucky will return.

She knows because she has her own sadness; she hopes one day James will return.

And she hates herself for it.

* * *

Clint, Stark and the others don’t know Barnes. He’s allowed pretty much anywhere, but he stays on his and Steve’s floor, only really talks to Steve. She understands he doesn’t want to be crowed, so leaves him alone. She doesn’t know if she even _wants_ to see him. Then Steve comes to her.

“I’m going on a mission.” He says blankly.

She stares at him, “You _what_? But what about...about _him_? He needs you! You’re the only one he’ll even talk to!”

Steve nods, “I know.” He admits, “That’s why I’m asking you. Even before the serum and everything, when he was sleeping–” apparently one of the few reasons he survived, even with the serum in his body, is because he slept so much and was doing so little physical activity, “–he talked about you. Not just me. You.” He sighs and runs a hand through his blonde hair, “I need to go on this mission, its a big HYDRA one.” He looks at her almost apologetically, “Banner told me everything. I asked, he answered, though it took a little prompting, I admit. But I read Bucky’s file.”

He still calls him Bucky. Not to his face, of course. He doesn’t really call him anything. He doesn’t need to, it’s always the two of them, so Barnes knows when he’s being referred to.

“And you were committed to bringing down HYDRA even before.” Natasha nods, “I get it.” and she sighs, “Fine, I’ll do it. But I make no promises for the future.”

“I’m not asking for the future,” he smiles, “Just for this. I’m going tonight. You can sleep in my room, if you want, or you can take the couch. I just want to make sure someone’s there for him.”

Natasha nods, “I get it.” she says again, “You just wanna make sure he’s okay.”

He sighs, “I don’t know if okay is possible, really. But he seems to be doing relatively well. He’s kinda like a child.”

“That will change.” She promised him, “His memories will come back and it’ll all fit into place.”

Steve shrugged, “Yeah.” He agreed, “At any rate, PhD or no, you’re the only one I trust to take care of him.” Then, he did something that caught Natasha by so much surprise that she had no idea how to react. He lent forward and kissed the top of her hair.

Before he pulls away, he murmurs against her hair, “I wanna thank you for helping Bruce so much. It means a lot to me.”

Then he turns to go kick some HYDRA ass, leaving Natasha wallowing in the biggest pool of self-hatred she has ever metaphorically seen. Steve it thanking her, kissing her head, because she’s helping Bruce, trying to get back his friend, and here she is, desperately hoping that the outcome is the man she knew, the man who was almost nothing like the man Steve knew.

* * *

That night, she decides that Steve and Bruce were wrong.

When he was alone in the Block (or at least he perceived himself to be alone) he was uninterested and blank. She never visited the lab after the serum dosages began and he started to become a little more active than a lobotomy patient. Bottom line, “child” was not the appropriate metaphor for his behaviour and psyche.

“cornered animal”, however...

He was very aware of everything. When she came onto Steve’s floor, he had been sat on the sofa. He looked different now, less like an asylum patient. More like a regular guy. It probably helped that he was wearing normal clothes.

When he noticed her, however, that changed.

She walked in, rucksack on her shoulder containing her clothes and a book or two (maybe an Icer stun-gun Hill gave her from Coulson). But from the way he looked at her you would have thought she turned up dressed like a KGB experimentalist.

KGB experimentalists being the team who tortured him after mind-wiping proved “ineffective”.

He stood up like a soldier in a drill session, but his knees were slightly bent and his hands were up. Not fisted, just up, as though he might have to fend off an object. His eyes were wide and fixated on her, like a...like a corner animal.

Before she could even say “hello” he had bolted into his room and that was that. She didn’t even bother going in to help him. He would need time to adjust to the new company; all he knew were Steve and “the Doctor” who was Banner – though he didn’t seem too scared of Banner. But for the most part he knew of no others in the tower. As such, it was clear he was not going to come near a single unfamiliar face.

So she pulled out her book, sat down on the sofa, and began to read. She had waited out targets before. Once she spent five days in an un-air-conditioned crappy hotel suite in southern Spain, with only Clint and a broken mini-fridge for company. Now she had the entirety of Stark’s technological luxuries at her fingertips. Waiting him out was the easy part.

The hard part was not letting her feelings get in the way of helping Steve. And she was failing miserably.

* * *

Three hours later, when he finally emerged from his room, he was so silent that the only way Natasha could have heard him was if she had Red Room training. Which she did. She glanced up from her book, turning around to look at him creeping across the room behind the sofa on the way to the kitchen. He froze like an animal’s prey when she moved, even more so when she looked at him. His brown eyes locked onto her, wide with terror and uncertainty as to what she would do. She realises with an uneasy jolt that he expects to be punished or beaten for wanting food.

“You hungry?” she asked, some genuine tenderness to her voice. She was trying her best to be kind to him, but kind was not her strong suit. He paused, staying tense and still, but then nodded quickly and slightly, barely a move of the head. But it was enough. She made him sit at the table whilst she defrosted something from Steve’s freezer. He was tense the whole time and fixated on one specific and seemingly random point. When she moved too suddenly, he flinched. Not just with fear, but as though he’s actually in pain.

She puts the food down in front of him. She’s no cook, but it looks edible, and when she takes a bite, it doesn’t taste half bad.

“You can eat, you know.” She tells him. He has not moved from his seat, and his gaze, now that food is in front of him, flits between her and the plate. “It’s not poison.”

“I did not earn this.”

She pauses, a fork halfway to her mouth. Slowly, she blinks, and puts the fork down on the plate. Then she sits down. She knows from experience that levels mean a lot. Standing and leaning against the counter will make him feel small, and probably only scare him more. If she’s on the same level, he will calm down. Hopefully.

“What do you mean?” she asks him,

“I did not earn this.” He repeats, somewhat in a monotone.

Another part of the file comes to her then.

_The Asset’s behaviour was only partially conditioned by electro-negative reinforcement. Behavioural tendencies were further stabilised through positive reinforcement. For each mission he completes he is given as much food and drink as he could want. If he fails in his mission, he goes without._

He expects there to be a catch. He did not complete a mission, so in his mind he has earned no right to food. She wonders how his mind is structured. The failsafe was clearly deactivated when they gassed him and inadvertently killed him for a few seconds, but the rest of his conditioning remains. She tries to work around it.

“You can eat.” She told him, “Here, you don’t have to earn it. You eat when you’re hungry. Are you hungry?” she already knows the answer; he was sneaking into the kitchen, wasn’t he? So maybe some rebelliousness is still in that mangled mind of his, it just needs bringing out, because though she’s never known him, sneaking into the kitchen to steal a bit of food sounds exactly like Bucky.

And, tentatively, he picks up his fork. He holds it delicately in his hand – his right hand, even though it really _should_ be in his left – and looks at her. His eyes are not as wide as they were, but he is still scared, still poised to run or attack. She smiled reassuringly, and carefully moves to pick up her own fork, and take a large mouthful of food. After a moment’s pause, his hunger must overpower his suspicion, and he takes a mouthful. After that, his hunger wins out completely, because the food is gone within minutes. Plate empty, he puts the fork down carefully, before standing and slowly, slowly backing away into his room, and closing the door behind him.

Well, she says ‘room’. Perhaps ‘apartment’ would be more accurate, as, though it is a bedroom, it is like a small apartment, with a private bathroom and a small living area, too. No kitchen, there is only one on the floor, and it’s the one that leads on to the larger communal living room. But aside from that, he could stay in his rooms for as long as he liked. And it seems like that is what he intends to do. She doesn’t know what to make of it, really.

So, she cleans up the plates and settles back to her book. Steve texts her (she’s surprised he knows how, and says as much in her reply) to ask if “Bucky” is alright. She replies yes; “he” is fine, but reclusive – she doesn’t want to type a name, because she doesn’t really know what to type. She reads some more, then makes her way to Steve’s rooms, and collapses on his bed, suddenly exhausted. Her last conscious thought is to ask Steve what cologne he wears, because his bed smells really nice.

* * *

The next morning, she wakes early, as usual, and pads into the kitchen, intent on getting coffee. She could go downstairs if she wants, but she doesn’t. Some days are not for company. Barnes, it seems, feels this way every day. The only time he’s out of his rooms is when he gets hungry, and sneaks around to eat it. She catches him in the morning because she rose earlier than he does; so much so she’s had time to make coffee and a stack of toast. Steve gets up at 7:00am sharp every morning, and it’s only just gone half-past six. If Steve was here it would be the ideal time to sneak food. But he’s not. She is, and she’s an _early_ bird.

Once more he freezes like he’s been caught, and though she’s tired and she hates that he reminds her of James, she forces a smile onto her face.

“You don’t have to sneak around.” She tells him, “No one’s gonna punish you for eating. I promise.” And to accent her point, she pushes the plate of toast across the table so it’s closer to him. He’s not sat at the table like she is, but he recoils from the toast anyway. He eyes it uncertainly.

“Just take some.” She says, a hint of impatience in her voice, and he stares at her. But he does as she asks now. _Another reason why they reduced him to a machine_. She thinks glumly, _he was compliant. Compliance will be rewarded._

As she watches him eat the toast, she feel herself sink into that gloomy pit again. She misses James so much. _So_ much. He was her first friend, her first lover. You don’t forget a thing like that, even fifty years on. She knows it’s not fair to blame Barnes, but she kind of does. She blames him for not being James, not being the man she hoped he would be. It was better when she thought James dead. Better she thought him gone that this tiny scrap of hope in the form of Barnes. The tiny scrap that will not fade and so twists and tears at her scarred half-heart, the other heart still his, even if he doesn’t know it. The hope will dig into her mind forever, and she scares herself a little by the anger she feels. TO Barnes, Steve, Banner, but mostly the KGB and HYDRA. However, even that rage pales compared to the wave of hatred she directs at herself. She knows she is selfish and despicable.

 _That’s why he got captured in the first place._ She tells herself, _why he got wiped and tortured. You were too selfish to think about protecting him, to tell him to leave and hide. Too selfish and now he is broken down to his basest core; ripped and remade as a machine, a hunting dog, by the KGB ad HYDRA. He has endured years of the grossest abuse fathomable. All because of **you**._

She holds back tears as she sips tersely at her coffee. She thinks that, because he’s so broken and confused and basic that he won’t notice. But she forgets. She forgets that he remembers his training, that he still knows those languages and how to shoot and fight and kill, he still knows how to read body language, he can still notice when someone’s fighting back tears.

And seeing her like this, sneaking glances, hardly daring to look for more than a fraction of a second, he wonders why she is crying over him, because some part of him just _knows_ she’s not crying because of something he did, but of something that happened to him, even if he doesn’t remember what that was in the first place.

In the very back of his mind, something flickers, and for the first time in years, James begins to awaken.

* * *

The rest of the day passes much like the first. She sits on the sofa and reads. Barnes stays in his rooms, only coming out when he is hungry. Every time, Natasha notices him. Every time, he freezes like hunting prey. Every time, she makes the food whilst he sits at the table, watching her with wide, terrified eyes. She think that, by dinner on the third day, he is relaxing a little, because the routine changes a bit.

It’s nearing seven ‘o’clock, and she’s waiting for the tell-tale signs of Barnes exiting his room. She hopes she will get a chance to finish this chapter. She does. And when she does, she closes the book, turns to his door and sees him watching her from around the edge of the door, like a curious child. She smiles, and though it is still forced, it is not _as_ forced. Even though she’s barely seen him, he seems nice enough. And he looks rather sweet, hanging back in the doorway, half nervous and half polite.

“Are you hungry?” she asks, and he drops her gaze before nodding. She gestures for him to follow her, and he does so without question. Once more the compliance that makes her job easier, but still unnerves her.

She turns to the stove and sets about trying to make food – a talent she has never possessed and probably never will – she feels a light pressure on her back. She turns to see Barnes with his hand outstretched. He tapped her on the shoulder.

“Yes?” she asks, and watches with confusion as he visibly gulps, then opens his mouth,

“Would you like some help?”

His voice is quiet, so quiet she almost misses it. Tentative and hushed, as though he expects to be punished. But to his relief (and a little to his pride) she smiles. It’s the first time he’s ever spoken directly to her, and she is surprised by how much that affects her. The hope of James is quelled slightly, blissfully lessened by his tentative gift of aid, the first step to a friendship.

So she nods softly, and he helps her make dinner. When they sit down and eat, they talk. Only about the food or the book she was reading, and always slowly, as if he cannot quite remember his words. But it is progress, and when they are finished, he helps her clean up, and retreats to his room calmly, not as though he is an animal released from captivity.

It's not much, but it's progress.

* * *

The next few months pass with similar routine. Around once a fortnight, Steve leaves for a few days to help apprehend HYDRA assailants, and she is in charge of watching Barnes. He is quite friendly with her after about a month, having grown to know her, and they talk about this and that, they watch movies together, they cook. He is still apprehensive to unfamiliar company, which is why she stays confined to Steve’s floor, like him, when Steve is away, and why she politely refuses other company when offered. Clint took it a little hard at first, but in all truth it was fine. He is her best friend, and nothing will change that. Not even a James-who-isn’t-James.

Even when Steve is around, she does what she can to help. She takes him to his psychotherapy sessions each week, she buys him clothes (because Steve really has no fashion sense, she had to buy practically _his_ entire wardrobe, too), she teaches him a little about pop culture and she finds that, strange and muddled as their lives are, there is a friendship here; solid and real and actually rather wonderful. It also becomes apparent that speaking and talking helps his memories surface more than anything, and it’s truly not a chore to listen to his talk of life in Brooklyn, his friendship with ‘stick-insect-Steve’, and watch his face light up as he speaks; remembering these times as he tells her about them, and they share laughter.

She comes to look forward to the time they spend together, and Steve is delighted when Bucky starts to become _Bucky_ again. He thanks Natasha over and over, and she promises him that he owes her nothing (not just because of the enjoyment, but because of her treacherous heart. Once its desires screamed in her head, now they are but a whisper. But they are still there, and he does not owe her anything when she holds such betrayal). Steve pulls out old pictures and only God could speculate how he managed to find them, but she pores over them for hours on end with Bucky/Barnes as he tells her the meaning of each, as she watches his face light up again and again with each regained memory they spark.

And, over time, she starts to realise something she had never even considered at first. Something that takes her by surprise, but then sparks something she never thought she would have again.

She begins to notice that James, the James she knew when they were away from the prying eyes and torturous needles of the KGB; _her_ James, is actually a great deal more similar to Bucky than she had ever given thought. His smile, his laugh, his protectiveness. As it all comes back, she realises that James were distorted images of the real man. There were differences, sure, but at the heart of this man, the heart he gave to her in exchange for her own, he is Bucky.

Either way, James was a different man to Bucky. And it wasn’t Bucky who’d fallen in love with her, any more than it was Bucky with whom she fallen in love.

But as time goes by, and he becomes more confident, and Steve is smiling like an idiot twenty-four-seven because his friend is back, she realises that it is the worst possible outcome. Because though he remembers Steve, he remembers nothing of her. Nothing of Natalia, or the KGB, though everything of HYDRA. It is strange, and even Banner can’t quite explain it.

She loved James, and she comes to realise that maybe she loved Bucky, too. But James is gone, and Bucky doesn’t know her. Bucky does not know what she has been through and could never truly know her as James did. She is stranger to him, further from James than ever before. It’s almost worse than the Soldier.

* * *

The friendship and repartee Natasha has built with him takes a startling turn for the worse one night.

Steve is once more out capturing HYDRA agents, and Natasha is once more ‘babysitting’ Bucky. She doesn’t call him Bucky, though she has to admit ‘Barnes’ doesn’t seem to fit. She calls him James, mostly, now that he knows his full name. She’s the only one who does, all the others call him Bucky (after she and Steve got them to break the habit of calling him the Winter Soldier). He’s never said anything about it, so she carries on. But sometimes ‘James’ feels too personal and too painful, so she plays it safe with ‘Barnes’. Once more, only she calls him that, but he doesn’t seem to mind.

* * *

_She’s running._

_She doesn’t know how long she’s been running or how far, but she knows she must not stop. Someone, some **thing** is on her heels and there’s no chance of it stopping. She can tell she’s been running for a while, because her chest burns with each frantic breath and her legs ache with effort. _

_She’s bleeding, too. Probably because of the thicket she’s scrambling through, covered in bramble bushes and sharp twigs, scratching and biting into her flesh, exposed by the ripped dress she wears. Once beautiful and shimmering gold, girlish and coming to her knees, it’s torn to shreds and stained with blood. Her feet are bare, bleeding and sore from stepping on stones and twigs, but she dares not stop._

_Then she falls._

_She doesn’t notice the stone until after her foot has made contact and she’s sprawled on the forest floor. A rock the size of her fist sticking indignantly out of the ground, and she has fallen flat into a clearing. Surrounded by branches too thick to push through, her body begging for rest, she finds she cannot get up._

_She scrambles backwards as a figure approaches from the shadows. She knows that before it was chasing her, running as fast as she, but now it saunters towards her languorously; it knows she cannot hide. She shuffles backwards on her hands, pushing herself away from the single break in the wall of trees._

_Her hand feels something wet._

_Trembling, her muscles jumping and making it an immense effort, she turns her head and raises her hand. It’s slick and shiny in the moonlight, near-black because it’s a silver scythe of a moon; thin and insubstantial. Her hand is slick and shiny and near-black with blood._

_A scream works its way from her breast to her lips but gets caught somewhere in her throat, and she can’t cry out, can’t even speak. She’s terrified, not at the blood, she has seen lots of blood, but of the figure from whom it came. Lying on the grass, uniform ripped, exposing flesh and muscle and sometimes even bone, the remaining clothing damp with blood, eyes open and staring glassily into the night, seeing nothing. Clint._

_Or, what’s left of him. He is broken, so broken, and clearly dead. A cry finally escapes her and she moves to kneel beside him, hands shaking uncontrollably with horror, and she weeps. She calls his name and whispers ‘no’ and feels hot tears streak her grimy face. A hole has opened in her heart, one she knows she will never be able to repair or fill. Through the blurry vision of her tears she sees something glint in the moonlight, and she realises that the horrors have only just begun._

_In varying states of wholeness, lie bodies. Steve with his throat cut so deep she can see the white of his spine, blood running from his mouth and dripping thickly onto his uniform, more red than white or blue. Banner, his skin lacerated, deep cuts running the length of his forearms, clotted stickily with blood that no longer flows. Thor, his right hand missing, cut clean off at the wrist, skull caved in at the back as though someone else swung Mjolnir at him. Stark, in his suit, the mask pulled off and a small dagger stuck in his eye._

_That is not all. As she looks out she sees more bodies, the further away they are the less she cared, but all people she knew, people she cared for at least a little. Coulson, as though he was never revived from Loki. Fury, looking as though the same thing that got his eye came back for another twenty rounds, and won every single one. Hill, her uniform almost non-existent, nor her skin, as though someone tried to skin her for a coat. Pepper, a long cut running from her throat to her navel, leaving her open, staining the ground black with blood. And, the same distance from her as Steve, lies James, his cybernetic arm no longer attached to his body, its metallic fingers closed around his own throat._

_Her mouth trembles and she cries out, “No, no, no, no, **NO**!” she screams, and the sobs take over her body once more. She stays by Clint’s body, simply unable to move in her horror, frozen with grief and terror. She can feel the figure’s gaze on her, watching from the edge of the clearing, and she hears a chuckle._

_She manages to choke out one sentence._

_“Why?”_

_Any number of reasons, really. Revenge, amusement, boredom. Any number of people want her suffering and dead, but she had never, **ever** imagined someone taking it out like this, taking the lives of so many for the sake of one. She only just manages to turn away from Clint and Steve and James and the others, turn away from the carnage, to face her assailant. She knows that they are responsible for the bodies behind her. She knows and she is correct. They step into the shadows, lighting their face in the dim glow of the moon._

_And she finds she doesn’t need an answer to her question, because she knows the answer already. Because that’s what’s done, that’s what people like her and them do. She can see it in those dead green eyes, exactly like her own._

_Because they **are** her own._

* * *

For the first time in years, she wakes from her nightmares in a cold, panicked sweat and doesn’t manage to choke back the scream lodged in her throat.

The sound fills her ears and her head and room with terror, and it’s a full five seconds before she calms down enough to realise there’s no danger, and a full twenty before she remembers that each floor is separately soundproofed, and only someone else on her floor could hear her.

But by this point she is aware of that fact, because a hand is around her throat and is choking her.

It takes a moment for the fact to fully register. She had half been expecting Clint to run in, ask if she's okay, and sit with her in their comforting and understanding silence until the dawn. She wasn't expecting a feral madman to attack her.

Eyes wild and terrified; deranged like he was as the Soldier, he is choking her. His metal hand is on the wall beside her head, and he threw her against the wall with such force that, when he flung out his hand to catch himself, he left a handprint an inch deep. His flesh hand is closed around her throat, and he is snarling wildly. He spits at her, the sounds too guttural for her to make them out, too hoarse and snarled; all she can tell is that it’s Russian. It's terrifying and she can feel the effects that the lack of oxygen in having, but she forces herself to keep her voice level, to keep calm.

“James...” She murmurs, her hands working at prying his fingers away, but they only half-succeed, “It’s me. It’s Natasha. I’m not going to hurt you.” She couldn't let her terror show, not now. She needed to be calm but with each passing moment it was more and more-

Something clicks. Maybe it’s the gentleness of her tone, the fact it’s in English, the fact she called him by name, but he stops. Like she’s stung him, he leaps back and she slides back down to her bed, gasping in air hungrily. When she is recovered enough to see straight, she notices he is pressed flat against the wall, like a cornered animal, terrified. She knows it is not of her, but of himself. She probes her throat with her fingers, she knows she heals faster than normal, and that the bruises will be gone by the time Steve returns, but her hands are still shaking. She forces them still. It was not his fault. It was HYDRA, the KGB, the Blood Red Room. _Blame **them**_. She tells herself, because she can't blame him. Not when she doesn't even really known who he is, not when he is so scared and confused. _Blame **them**._

“James...” she says softly, and his brown eyes fixate on her fearfully. Slowly she gets up from the bed and walks over to him. He shrinks away, whimpers slightly, scared he might hurt her, but she is not fazed. She has fought him before and won, and that was before he was broken by the KGB, before he was reduced to a hunting dog.

“It’s okay...” she promises him, and she surprises herself by the soothing tone of her voice. She wasn’t aware she could make such comforting sounds, moreover that she was capable of meaning them. But they seem to work, and she can see the muscles in his jaw stop twitching, she can see his heart rate slow down to normal, see his tensed muscles relax. She takes his hand. She’s never touched him skin on skin before, but maybe it’s time for a change, and she leads him out of her bedroom.

“What time is it?” With a pang she notices it is that small, whispered voice, the tone of the scared boy who doesn’t know where he is or what’s happening. She glances at the clock on the kitchen wall. _5:48am_.

“Too late to try and get more sleep.” She answers, and she thinks it’s best if he doesn’t sleep now, anyway. Who knows what nightmares might plague him. Plus, after the horror show of her own sleeping mind, she doesn’t really want to be alone, even if the only viable company did just attempt to strangle her.

* * *

At first he is quiet and says nothing, only watching her like a frightened child as she makes a cup of coffee and curls up on the sofa, sipping at it tersely. She won’t allow herself to sleep, not for now, anyway.

Then he begins to apologise. Over and over he begs her forgiveness, and she gives it. Because she knows that wasn’t him, but some sick reflex that HYDRA and the KGB built into him, built out of torture and terror. Eventually, she chances an amiable approach, because sincere has already done all it can.

“Oh relax, Barnes.” She scoffs good-naturedly, “I’d be lying if I said that was the first time that happened.” She took another sip of coffee, “Though your wearing nothing but boxers _was_ an interesting change.” She smirks a little and sips at her coffee, silently insisting everything was fine. She’d called him ‘Barnes’ because calling him James didn’t feel appropriate right now.

“I’m really, _really_ sorry, Natasha.” He said, guilt apparent in his puppy-dog eyes, big and sad and brown like a doe's, and a slight lilt to the way he said her name. Nat- _ah_ -sha, not Na- _tash_ -a; a long, low elegant A sound that betrayed, perhaps, a slight memory.

Though the fact he had choked her and spat at her in Russian was also a clue. Though buried deeper than Bucky, the Red Room was still alive in his head. She hated herself for the hope it gave her, that James was still alive inside of this man. She knew how deep it was buried, though. She had read his file.

The file that had stated the mind-wipes had not been all that powerful. The mind-wipes they had first given him, to bury Bucky and Steve and WWII, had not been that effective. He had had to be tortured, psychologically conditioned to not think or act or speak like Bucky. Now she remembered the scars that had covered his body. She had thought nothing of them, thought them memoires of missions. But no. They had been scars from his torture.

But that had not been all. The file documenting the Soldier’s time in the Red Room had gone into explicit detail – disapproving detail – that he had requested _he_ be the one to break the Widow apprentice in. He had saved her from the level of abuse her once-sisters had been subject to, insisted that he train her in those acts. The file had also continued to say that the same ‘persuasive techniques’ needed to condition the Bucky out of him, had been used to make him forget her. She had realised with a strange jolt that James had valued her as much as Bucky had valued Steve, and she still didn’t know what to make of that.

She doubted the Soldier would return with memories of her, because she knew him before the Red Room opted to turn him into little more than a machine, back when he was still somewhat compliant. Only when they tasted freedom, and found they liked it, was the Red Room forced to wipe him regularly, forced to reduce him to a tool.

“Seriously,” she continued, after regaining more control over her voice, “It’s okay, I forgive you.”

“Mm.” It is clear from the tone of his voice and his refusal to meet her eyes that he is not convinced, but at the very least, he stops looking so guilty. Her words were half a lie; a kind lie to ease his pain, because frankly she was shaken down to her bones, and few things could do that to her. Forgiveness, equalit, is half a stranger, and has never come easily. But her words, as they often were when not concerning her hawk or her captain, were not meant to ring true, but to act as a balm. A source of whatever she needed to get what she wanted. In this case, comfort to alleviate guilt, as much for the sake of her own tiredness as Barnes' concern for her wellbeing.

* * *

After several hours of just sitting in silence, Bucky sat in the armchair and her sat on the far corner of the sofa, she concluded that the best way to make him (and herself, because that nightmare won’t be leaving her particularly soon) feel better is by bringing out the Bucky in him again – the memories of the good and close friend he was to Steve. The man he’s become after the serum repaired his brain and his memories. He needs to remember the good friend he was and is, to pull his mind away from the guilt of doing something that she doesn’t blame him for. She does this by using her enhanced memory to remember that ‘40s style dance club she passed one day when she decided to take a shortcut on the way to Steve’s apartment.

She decides to take him dancing.

She doesn’t know if having him around strangers is a good thing or not, but the likelihood of them being hostile enough to bring out the Soldier seems slim. Upon considering this, she jolts at how many sides to him he has. She has the Widow and Natasha. Everything else is a meaningless cover -- even the Widow itself, to an extent. But he has Bucky, he has James, he has the Soldier. Three defined and seperate sides. A complex way to live. _A good way not to die_. She hopes he will remember her, become James again, then she hates herself. She actually _does_ sort of hope he chooses Bucky, because what he is now is so sweet. But she doesn’t know if she could look at him every day and be reminded of the man he was, the man she loved, and know that he was so close, but she would never hold him again.

Because, though James was similar, she didn’t know him as Bucky. Not really. And Bucky would never choose her. Only James, but James is most likely dead and gone.

* * *

The club is filled with mostly older couples, dancing slowly, but there are a few younger ones, and judging from the lookalikes, they’re the next few generations; a girl and her boyfriend taking out her grandparents on a sort of double date. The music is forties enough, but quite slow; the band seem as bored as the younger couples, but the music is nice. It’s calm. She likes it. Maybe because she was born in the late thirties and this is the music of her tine, her _true_ time; that tiny period of her life where she was untouched by the Red Room. She’s too young to have any memories of that time, even if the Red Room hadn’t wiped her and skewed her perception, but she likes the music. She's come here with Steve on a handful of occassions, discovered that he dances like he kisses. He's still waiting for the right partner, but that doesn't mean they didn't enjoy themselves, and she was happy to fill in and teach him a thing or two -- about dancing. Kissing was strictly off the table, and with a smirk she'd added in her head _I'll leave that job to Stark_. They still come here now and then to talk and laugh and unwind and generally shrug off the duties of SHIELD and the Avengers for a few hours. Though, admittedly, with all that's happened in the past few months, they've somewhat fallen out of the habit.

At first, she and Barnes sit down at one of the tables and watch the others in half-tense silence, absently tapping hands in time to the music, and she orders a drink when the waitress comes up. He seconds it, but when it arrives he only taps his finger against it. It _clinks_ slightly, and she can tell easily, even though he’s wearing thick, black gloves and she’s not looking at him, that it’s his left hand. The metal one. She takes a swig of her own drink. Non-alcoholic ginger beer. The same thing she drinks with Steve (and Clint when they're on missions and not allowed to get drunk). It tastes warm and spicy. If friendship had a taste, she decided, it would taste like this.

She chances a quick glance at him after a while, and sees that he looks wistful, like he’s remembering something, something from his Bucky days. He looks, for the first time since she’s known him, even all the way back in ’47, at peace.

She allows herself a small smile at this; never had James ever looked truly at peace, and she knew why, with the threat of the Red Room and torture hanging over his head. But he looked at peace now; for a moment, he could pretend that he was still in 1945, with Steve and both arms and a full memory.

“Do you want to dance?” she asks softly, and he looks at her suddenly, as though he’s forgotten she’s there. But he nods, a little shyly, and she stands up. She allows him to lead her onto the dancefloor, places his hand on her hip when he hesitates, and they dance. A few of the younger couples watch them with mild interest, and one or two even join in.

The band, sensing a little more enthusiasm, play with more vigour, and as the song progresses, he relaxes under her touch a little. This is progress; he has been tense and skittish around her these past few days, not really trusting her. But the way he smiles, it seems he is starting to now. He is watching her feet, and the tip of his tongue protrudes from his mouth as they dance, and she can hardly believe that this is the same face that was indifferent and confused as he shot her without a second thought.

“You’re watching me awful close.” He mutters to her as they dance. He’s still watching her feet with an intense mixture of confusion and concentration, and his face, without a heavy guard that like in the Red Room had made a necessity of, is boyishly charming, and rather adorable. He had yet to cut his hair shorter, but at least now it was washed and cut neatly, so that it no longer hung limply in his eyes. She can see more of the Bucky Steve knew, more of the light-hearted, joking, ladies’ man. But she can see James, too. As though the two sides to him are coexisting. But then she dismisses it as being overly hopeful.

She smiles at him, “I’m supposed to be. Steve said to keep an eye on you.” At this, he gives a small chuckle, and glances up at her.

He flashes her a boyish, crooked smile, “Y’know, back in the war, I’d’ve given my right arm to take a dame like you out dancing one night.” He smiles, his voice, now that he was speaking English, betrayed more of his childhood, a hint of a classic Brooklyn accent that she kinda liked. Maybe it’s because of the locale, but it seems more prominent now. She smiles and chanced a joke, a tongue-in-cheek one – but Bucky Barnes struck her as a guy who liked them. And, in the months she’d spent befriending him, she _knew_.

“Why don’t we settle for your left arm, and I’ll let you buy me a drink later.” she says cheekily, and he flashes her the smile again, before speaking in a _really_ Brooklyn voice.

“Yes, ma’am.”

* * *

By the time the club was closing up, Bucky was smiling and chatting animatedly with Natasha, all issues of how the day had started long gone from his mind. When she moves a little suddenly, as was her nature as the Black Widow, he no longer flinches. When they arrive back at the tower, everyone’s asleep, and he invites her to his rooms for a drink. She does something then that she never thought she would do, not unless she was on a mission.

She accepts.

She walks into his mini-apartment on Steve’s floor and she is surprised by how similar it is; barren of any personal effects, save for a few records that were no doubt given to him by Steve, told to have been his favourites back when he was Bucky. The cabin in Moscow is the closest thing she gets to personal, because she can’t leave anything behind, lest it be used to track or trap her. He doesn’t _have_ anything to leave behind. Like her, he is a canvas, ready to be painted; a piece of clay ready to be shaped. The KGB left them like this, left them to fill any need they required. Paint them, shape them, and they become works of art. But then the KGB left them, unshaped, unpainted, and with no idea how to do so themselves.

Then, after a few drinks they are sat on his sofa, and he poses a question that has no doubt been plaguing him for the whole day.

“Why did you forgive me?”

He looks at her with such confusion, his face so open and gentle, that she can’t help but feel compelled to answer honestly. She feels she owes it to him. To James. Or, whoever he’s supposed to be now.

“Because I know what you’ve been through.” She tells him, “And you’re my friend. I trust you.” She doesn’t add that he was her friend long before he remembers.

“But _why_?” he presses, “I nearly _killed_ you.”

“That wasn’t you.” She says immediately, and he looks startled by this. So she continues, “Even if you don’t remember it, I know what the...” she pauses, now is not the time to tell him of the KGB, she will let him discover that in his own time, if he remembers it at all. “I know what HYDRA did” she pauses again, “I know what it feels like.” She tells him, “I ended up in a bad place, once, too. They wiped me, turned me into a weapon.”

He thinks about this for a moment, “How did you break out?” he asks her, and she smiles fondly,

“I...I knew someone.” She tells him, “A friend, and a good man. He helped me taste freedom, and I liked it.” she pauses, “I was willing to fight for it.” she smiles at him fondly, “You remind me a lot of him.” She adds.

He looks confused, like he’s missed an in-joke. Which he sort of has. “What do you mean?” he asks, “I’m not a complete idiot, I know I was the Soldier for HYDRA. I know they turned me into a mindless weapon.” he pauses, and she notes his frankness to say this as psychological progress, and feels slightly happier. Then he continues, “How can a man I remind you of have helped shape you? How can someone like me help to make someone like you?”

“Firstly,” she says, “You weren’t always some mindless weapon –no offence.” She adds as an afterthought, “And neither was...the man I knew. He was my friend, the first person I actually trusted.” She smiles at him, and he chances a small, nervous smile back, “And second,” she continues, “What d’you mean by _someone like me_?”

There is a pause. “Just... _you_.” he replies, shrugging, “You’re so...driven. I’ve seen you around Steve and that archer guy. You’d do anything for them. Steve said you have a dark past, but you seem so... _good_. Not like a superhero, but like...you’ll do all you can to make things right.” He doesn’t know how close he’s hit the mark; how everything she does is based on two principals: Amend for her ledger, and keep those she trusts (and loves) safe.

So she decides that he has the right to know. The right to know that Steve only knows the worst of it, but she can fill in the blanks. She can show him that, even as the Winter Soldier, he wasn’t always a machine, he was once a man, the man who shaped her into becoming so much more than a glorified attack dog.

She tells him how there are so many things wrong with her, after what the Red Room did, and the awful things they made her do. She tells him that the man she knew (he) is the reason she is not all bad, the apprentice he chose to endure the fire, the one he knew would survive, (though she omits the fact that she was the one, the _only_ one, the man – he – chose to take into his bed; as a lover or as a student, and that it was all the way back in the sixties. There are some things he can’t know, even as a third person observer).

She tells him how this man trained her beyond the requirements, became a friend and a companion instead of just a student, how he jumped to her aid in missions even when he didn’t _need_ to. He just wanted to keep her safe. She knows he doesn’t remember it, and he’s seeing it like a child being told a fairytale; something from a far off land that they will never know in person. But she needs him to know, at least somewhat.

And she tells him how this, this man’s pure and genuine love of her, the only pure and genuine thing in her whole life, saved her from becoming a total machine. How her love for him and his love for her was thought to be so dangerous and powerful that the Red Room scrubbed his mind and killed him. In the end, that action only led to its destruction.

“Love can do powerful things, James.” She tells him, and pauses for a moment when she realises she’s called him James. But he doesn’t correct her, just listens as he softly stares off into the distance. “It broke down my Red wall, it let me see past their mind wipes. Which means that you can break your wall too. You can get your memories back.”

He looks at her, his brown eyes dark and haunted, “You said love.” He tells her, his voice hollow, “You broke out because someone loved you. But look at me. I barely even know my own name, and I was one of the most feared assassins in the world. No one could love me.”

She so desperately wants to say that she could, she _does_ , but she pulls herself back. She can’t dump her feelings on him, not now, not when he’s so broken himself and he still doesn’t really know her. S she forces a small smile on her face and says, “There are different kinds of love. Familial love, for one. Steve loves you like a brother, y’know. Maybe that’ll be enough to break down that wall, to get your memories back.”

“But what if I don’t want to?” he asks her. She knows he is thinking of the things HYDRA made him do, the things he had no control over. But she also knows that, regardless of this, he will blame himself, because that’s James, and that’s Bucky. So she shrugs.

“Then you won’t.” she replies, “But from what Steve’s told me about Bucky, and from what I’ve seen, he’s a pretty good guy. _You’re_ a pretty good guy. Are you sure you want to lose that?”

As he considers this, she only realises now how much she’s said the word love. Before she thought it luck and power and determination – and it was those things. But it was also love. He gave her the only love she can remember in the Red Room. Familial love (and romantic). The only times she ever felt safe, _truly_ safe, were when she was with him. Her knife still begs for blood and she still finds it hard to care about things, but James is one of those few exceptions where her emotions are so potent that the Widow might return, might leap from the shadows to smite all and any who stand threat of harming him. There are only two other exceptions. Two other people that might cause the Widow to emerge, the _truly_ deadly creature she was, not the tamer version of now. They are Clint and Steve. But neither have ever caused the Widow to reveal so drastically, neither have such a strong pull. James was the first, and he is the most powerful.

But she doesn’t tell him that. Because that was James and he’s not James. James was the one who loved her, not Bucky or the Soldier or Barnes who is none of them. And James may as well be dead. All that’s left is Barnes, this Barnes who she is increasingly thinking of as Bucky. She won’t give her heart to him. Because he doesn’t know that the man she described is him, and yet, not him. James might want her heart, assuming he doesn’t hate her after all the torture he went through. Bucky won’t want it. Bucky doesn’t know her. Bucky doesn’t love her. So she doesn’t put herself in the line of fire.

Because she doesn’t think she would survive if he broke her heart again.

**Author's Note:**

> For those of you who're interested, the whole "suicidal after capture" thing actually came from Ward in Agents of SHIELD, and he noted that after he was sedated, he sort of accepted his situation. I took creative licence with that and decided that that was a standard HYDRA conditioning program (well, the suicide part, anyway) so enemies couldn't learn secrets.


End file.
